


(just some scars from) a life that used to trouble me

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma does have a secret...just not the one she's sharing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(just some scars from) a life that used to trouble me

**Author's Note:**

> This started life as a much crackier fic--a crackier fic I might still write someday. I don't know how it became what it is, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> I'm behind on comment replies, but I'm also behind on classwork, so...that'll take priority. So sorry!
> 
> Title comes from Fun.'s _Sight of the Sun_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

A long and highly skeptical silence follows Jemma’s announcement. She tries not to blush under the stares of her entire team and, she suspects, fails miserably.

“Really?” Coulson eventually asks.   

“Yes.” She nods earnestly. “So you see, I _can’t_ go on the mission. You wouldn’t want to endanger the life of my unborn child, would you?”

Beside her, Fitz rolls his eyes. She’s not looking at him, but she doesn’t _need_ to be to know that’s what he’s doing. She can practically hear it.

“No, we wouldn’t,” Coulson agrees. His smile is placid; she’s fairly certain he doesn’t believe her. “But, uh, if you don’t mind me asking, who’s the father?”

Oh, no.

Her mind goes entirely blank. Usually, Jemma’s the sort of person who could (though _wouldn’t_ ) provide a list of every man she’s ever so much as kissed, alphabetically or chronologically or even in order of talent. Right now, though, she’d swear she’s never so much as _met_ a man, for how empty of names her mind is.

This is why she likes to have some preparation before lying; she’s no good at improvisation. No good at all.

(And it’s her own fault that she’s spent all day fretting and stewing instead of _planning_. What rotten luck she has.)

Silence is drawing out again, and with every second that passes it becomes that much more suspicious. She knows none of the team is convinced; honestly, she should just give it up as a bad job.

But she _really_ doesn’t want to go on this mission.

She reaches desperately for a name—for _any_ name—and voices the first one that comes to her. “Ward.”

Oh.

Oh, dear.

She should’ve given that a second’s more thought, shouldn’t she?

All eyes swing to Ward, who’s gone completely still. He’s obviously surprised to find himself named—which is fair, as they’ve never had sex.

“Ward?” Coulson prompts. He’s looking mildly entertained, and, admittedly, Jemma likely would find Ward’s gobsmacked expression amusing under any other circumstances. Skye appears to be quite literally biting her tongue to keep from commenting. “Anything to say?”

“Uh.” Ward’s eyes move to Jemma, and she gives him a nervous smile, hoping against hope he won’t expose her lie to the team. “Could we…have a minute, sir?”

“Go ahead,” Coulson says, and Ward pushes away from the holocom.

“Great,” he says, rounding the holocom and catching Jemma gently by the arm as he passes her. “Let’s talk.”

She follows him willingly out of the briefing room, worrying at her lower lip as they go. It’s unlikely she’ll be able to convince him he’s impregnated her, since—again—they’ve never had sex. Not to mention the fact that she’s not actually pregnant.

But how to persuade him not to tell the team?

Ward stops in the lounge, but only briefly. After a glance over his shoulder at the others—who are all unabashedly watching them through the briefing room windows—he continues through the door and down the corridor.

He doesn’t release her arm until they reach the catwalk above the cargo bay, at which point he lets her go and turns to face her with an expectant frown.

“Well?” he asks.

“I’m sorry,” she says at once. “I panicked. I’m _such_ a bad liar; I just said the first name that popped into my head…which happened to be yours.”

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his mouth, eyes drifting toward the bulkhead like he can see through it to the team.

“You wanna tell me why you lied at all?” he asks.

Jemma grimaces before she can stop herself. “Not really.”

“ _Simmons_.”

“I don’t want you to think less of me,” she admits, in the face of his unimpressed stare. “Which you will. Undoubtedly.”

His face softens, and he steps into her space to cup her by the shoulders. His hands are warm through the thin fabric of her shirt, and she relaxes a bit despite herself.

“Simmons,” he says, “I literally kill people for a living. I have no room to judge anyone, and I won’t judge you.” He squeezes her shoulders gently. “Promise.”

Well, when he puts it like that…

He probably _will_ judge her—and she certainly won’t blame him—but the fact of the matter is, he deserves to know why she’s drawn him into such a ridiculous lie. If nothing else, she owes him for the miles of mockery Skye is certain to get out of this.

“All right,” she says, and, for fear of losing her nerve, jumps right in as his hands fall away from her shoulders. “I was very young when I went to university, and very, very curious. Unfortunately, my—well, my moral center didn’t develop quite as quickly as my mind did. It led me down some regrettable paths.”

Ward’s eyes narrow as he reaches the obvious conclusion. “Simmons…are you saying you have some kind of connection to these people?”

 _These people_ are the rogue organization they’re in England investigating, a group of what Skye has deemed mad scientists, who have performed a number of highly unethical experiments on very _unwilling_ test subjects.

“Oh, yes,” Jemma says, hugging herself. “I should say so.” She inhales slowly, steeling herself for the disgust she’s certain she’s about to face. “The compound that led us here, the one they used on the victims from Bristol…I designed it.”

“You—” he rocks back on his heels, and Jemma’s heart beats loudly in her ears. “You _designed_ it?”

“Nearly fourteen years ago,” she says, by way of (a very weak) defense. “Once my conscience caught up with me, I destroyed all of my notes, but they must have managed to recreate them.” She shivers just to think of how long it took them—how many times they must have failed before they succeeded, and how many people must have died in the process. “It was probably Zelman; he always was the smartest of the lot.”

And the most terrifying, though only in retrospect. At the time, she was flattered by his attention—by the very adult admiration he showed for her intellect, so different from the condescending flattery she received from everyone else.

Now, she’s simply grateful she found her way (so to speak) before her natural curiosity drew her into more trouble than she could handle.

“I’m sorry,” Ward says, with an incredulous sort of laugh, “I’m having a little trouble wrapping my head around— _you_ designed a drug that basically tortures people to death?”

She hugs herself tighter as her skin crawls with memory. “I wasn’t—it didn’t feel real to me, then. Not really. It was an intellectual exercise; they presented me with a challenge, and—” she smiles bitterly “—I rose to the occasion. I always did.” Her throat is so tight that she’s forced to finish in a whisper. “It took me far too long to consider the consequences of my actions.”

Ward’s expression isn’t unsympathetic, but he spares them both the indignity of attempting to absolve her of guilt. She has every reason to regret her association with these—these _terrorists_ , and they both know it.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” he asks, propping a hip against the railing. “We spent _hours_ looking for these people. If you could’ve helped with—”

“I couldn’t have,” she hurries to assure him. Not even this level of shame could lead her to actively impede such an important investigation—not when so many people have died already. “I haven’t had contact with any of them since I finished my first thesis—I haven’t  _wanted_ any. I had no idea where to find them, and I couldn’t have tracked them down any faster than Skye did.”

“Well, that’s something,” he says, and rubs at his jaw. “Who else knows about this? Your involvement with these people?”

“Only Director Fury,” she says. “Well, and the agent who recruited me, but she died years ago.” She can’t bear the weight of his gaze any longer, so she turns away, gripping the railing as she looks out over the cargo bay. “SHIELD was supposed to be a fresh start.”

After a moment, Ward’s hand comes to rest on top of hers. “That’s why you lied? Because you don’t want anyone to know about this?”

“Yes,” she says, miserably. “If they recognize me…if they say anything…I couldn’t bear it if the others knew. I don’t want _you_ to know.”

“Hey,” he says, and waits until she looks at him to continue, “I told you I wasn’t gonna judge you, and I’m not. There are plenty of things I’d rather the team not know about me, either.” His thumb sweeps over the back of her wrist. “But you know that lie’s not gonna last long, right? I mean, assuming you’re _not_ pregnant…?”

“No,” she confirms as he trails off, eyebrows raised in question. “I’m not.”

“The whole team’ll notice when you never show any signs,” he says, almost apologetically. “So unless you’ve got plans to get knocked up in the next six hours or so…”

For a wild—and very desperate—moment, she actually considers it. The only affection she feels for Ward is platonic, but she can’t deny that, physically, he’s truly stunning. And he did save her life last week. Perhaps if she asked very nicely…?

But that’s absurd, of course. She’s not going to create new life solely for the purpose of avoiding a specific mission. (Not to mention how obvious the disparity in timing would be. In order to necessitate being withdrawn from field missions, she would need to be at least three months along, and the team would certainly notice when her baby _wasn’t_ born six months from now.)

“I know,” she sighs. “It was an _awful_ lie. But I needed a valid reason to be kept out of the field, and that was the only one I could think of.”

“Yeah.” Ward pats her hand and then withdraws his to brace himself against the railing next to her. “Better luck next time.”

Jemma smiles half-heartedly and turns to face the door. She should just return to the briefing room and confess, put her pathetic lie aside and admit the terrible truth, but she can’t quite make her feet move.

“I suppose I should face the music,” she says, hoping verbal encouragement will help.

Her feet remain stubbornly motionless.

“Or not,” she mutters.

It’s not _just_ the shame, is the problem. It’s everything that will follow: how differently the team will look at her, the inevitable loss of their good opinions, and—perhaps worst of all—the possibility that Coulson will insist upon her participation in the mission, in order to redeem herself for her previous associations.

She can’t face Zelman—or Rivard or Capshaw or Holly or _any_ of them, really.

She just…can’t.

Her skin prickles, and she glances over to find Ward studying her intently.

“What?” she asks uncomfortably.

“I’ll talk to Coulson.” His hand lands on her shoulder and squeezes kindly. “Your lie won’t hold up, but I think I can keep you out of the field.”

“Really?” she asks, heart lifting. “How?”

“I’ll tell him you’re still jumpy after that scare last week,” he says. She can’t help a shudder at the mention (she hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since throwing herself out of this very cargo bay), and he rubs his hand up and down her arm. “It’s not unusual for inexperienced agents to take some time off after that kind of trauma. He’ll understand you not wanting to go back into the field just yet.”

Part of Jemma rails at the suggestion—she’s not traumatized, she’s _fine_ , and the last thing she wants is for the team to think otherwise—but she must admit it’s an elegant solution to this whole mess. A mess that is entirely of her own making, and into which he hardly asked to be drawn.

So she gives him her best smile and says, “Thank you,” instead of protesting.

“No problem.”

Ward’s hand falls away after a final squeeze to her shoulder, and Jemma crosses her arms, oddly bereft.

“No, really,” she insists, distressed by the casual dismissal. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He blinks—likely taken aback by her ferocity—but, after a moment, nods solemnly.

“You’re welcome, Simmons,” he says. “And, hey. The next time you have a problem like this?” He angles his head to meet her eyes earnestly. “You can come to me, okay? I promise I’ll never judge you.”

“Thank you,” she repeats, smiling. She can’t imagine this will ever happen again—unless they start running into her old comrades on a regular basis, and isn’t that a terrifying thought—but she’s warmed by his offer nonetheless. “I will.”

“Good.” Ward smiles teasingly. “Because you really are a _horrible_ liar.”

All she can do is laugh, a touch helplessly, because he’s not at all wrong. His smile widens.

“I know,” she says and, under his encouraging gaze, finds the courage to step through the bulkhead door. “I suppose it’s fortunate for me that _you_ aren’t.”

He’s following closely enough that his breath feathers over her neck as he chuckles. Jemma chooses not to examine the shiver it sends down her spine.

“Oh,” he murmurs, hand pressing briefly to her lower back as they enter the lounge, “you have no idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> This came so close to being a fake dating/fake pregnancy trope fic, I can't even tell you. Maybe next time.


End file.
